


Your name isn't Rio, but I don't care for sand.

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:52:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the Johnlock exchange on tumblr. :3<br/>Prompt: "I’d particularly love a fic where they are officially together, but are trying to hide it, BUT the subtle shift in their relationship leads to a big reveal in front of everyone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your name isn't Rio, but I don't care for sand.

John didn’t like it. Really, not one bit. John was affectionate, loving, tactile, all things that led to the fact that his self-enforced no-touching-in-public rule for his boyfriend being an actual living hell. Especially as his boyfriend was an absolute petulant child about the matter:

“The only logical conclusion from this is that you don’t, in fact, care about me at all,” said Sherlock, calmly tuning his violin one afternoon.

John licked his lips testily. “Sherlock, you know that’s not true.” Sherlock’s expression didn’t change, nor did he in any way acknowledge that John had spoken. John sighed. “Look, we’ve talked about this. I love you, I really do, I just-” John licked his lips again. “I don’t want people to know, okay?”

“That’s illogical. Clearly you’re ashamed of being with me.” Sherlock’s face betrayed no emotion, and he carried on with his violin impassively, twisting pegs and plucking strings as though the conversation bored him (it did), and they’d had it a million times (they had).

John walked over, kissed him (Sherlock didn’t react), and murmured, “I’m sorry, love, I really am, but there was nothing I could do.” Sherlock merely regarded him impassively, and did not speak.

John considered himself dismissed.  
*  
He tried to slink in as quietly as he could, which was inherently stupid. The idea that he, John Watson, could avoid detection by Sherlock Holmes on his way back into the flat late at night was laughable, honestly, and he knew it wouldn’t work, but he tried nonetheless. As soon as John made it onto the upstairs landing, Sherlock called out to him.

“Don’t tiptoe, John, it’s quite useless. I heard the taxi stop.” John stopped trying and trudged into the room, where Sherlock was sitting in a veritable forest of scientific textbooks. John nudged a few onto the floor so that he could sit on his side of the bed.

“What’s all this about?”

Sherlock ignored him.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock studiously turned the page, pulled a pencil from his ample hair, and scribbled a note in a margin halfway down the page. (John was always amazed by how quickly Sherlock seemed to read.) John licked his lips.

“Hullo? Earth to Sherlock?”

Sherlock spared John a blank glance, then went back to his reading, chewing on the lead of his pencil as he did so.  
John frowned. “Fine, be that way.” He flopped on the bed, and laid on his side, facing away from Sherlock, and tried to will himself to  
sleep. It didn’t work.

John rolled back over to face Sherlock. “Sherlock?” Page turn. “Sherlock, come on, please talk to me?” Page turn. John leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Please?” Page turn. Now John was getting annoyed. He was a grown man, and though it was his fault, he was not going to be treated like this. “Sherlock, we have to talk about this. You can’t keep acting like a child. We have to communicate.” Page turn. John was starting to get really irritated. He licked his lips, his voice rose. “Look. I’m sorry that I missed our anniversary, but--”

“You know that’s not the reason, John, dates are irrelevant.” Page turn.

John sighed, licked his lips again. “What, then? Huh? You need to talk to me.”

Sherlock looked up from his book, but not at John. “John, I’m bored.”

John’s heart quailed in his chest. “Bored of what?” John stopped himself before he said what he was most afraid of; _‘bored of me?’_ , but it didn’t matter; he knew that was the answer. He just wasn’t worth it. He was ordinary John Watson who’d had the good fortune to be with extraordinary Sherlock Holmes, and his luck had run out because he kept running out on Sherlock, who had always deserved better, and finally realized it.

Sherlock shot him a withering glare. “John. I am not bored of you. Don’t you dare ever imply that again. I said I loved you. I meant it. Love means permanence. Stop being a child.” John opened his mouth to retort, but Sherlock kept talking. “I’m simply bored of this ridiculous parade of idiocy in which we have to pretend that we are not together.” Sherlock sat up and faced John. “It’s irrational even that you’re afraid of that. This is the 21st century, no one cares. In fact, most people already think we are together. And besides, it doesn’t matter what people think.” John was pointedly avoiding looking at Sherlock. Sherlock noticed. “Oh, but it does matter to you, doesn’t it? Friendly, affectionate people-person John Watson doesn’t want people to think he’s queer, and his boyfriend can just go rot, can he?” Sherlock flopped back down onto his pillow and picked up his book, turning pages viciously.

“Sherlock, it’s not that,” said John quietly, almost a whisper.

“WHAT, THEN?” The page Sherlock was holding tore. “What is it, John? Please. Enlighten me, because clearly your intellect is superior to mine and you have reasons I cannot even fathom.” John muttered something in return that Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to listen to (though he was perfectly capable of hearing if he tried). “What, John? Speak up.”

“I SAID THAT’S THE FUCKING POINT, YOU STUPID TWAT.” John had a wild, hunted look on his face, and was on the verge of tears. His voice dropped back to a barely-there whisper, but this time Sherlock was listening. “You’re perfect. You’re beautiful, you’re stunning, you’re absolutely jaw-droppingly gorgeous, and you’re completely, insanely, mind-bogglingly bloody brilliant. Everyone falls in love with you. Molly’s in love with you. Irene was in love with you. I’m pretty sure Anderson’s at least a little in love with you.” John was crying softly now, tears running down his cheeks and dripping into his open mouth. “And then there’s me. Boring, ordinary cripple John Watson, the latest in a long line of people to fall completely in love with you, who doesn’t d--”

“Don’t.” Sherlock’s voice was dangerously low, his hand clenched around the torn page of his book.

John’s voice rose again, “That’s what they’ll say, though, isn’t it? And it’s true. ‘Poor John, another one totally in love with Holmes, doesn’t even bloody deserve to be with him. He’s just ordinary, and Sherlock will get bored of him soon enough. Just another one of his whims.’”

Sherlock whirled around and grabbed John by the shoulders, crumpled page fluttering lamely to the ground. He gripped John tight enough that it hurt a little, and spoke to him from so close that their noses were nearly touching. “Don’t you dare, John Hamish Watson, don’t you ever dare imply that you are in any way ordinary, or that you’re just another whim of mine, and that I won’t always be yours. I chose you, do you understand that? I. Chose. You. In that lab with Mike Stamford and your stupid limp and your phone and the way you carried yourself. I thought ‘yes, I think so,’ and I have never changed my mind, and I will never change my mind. Is that clear?”

John nodded dumbly.

“Good. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to sleep.” Sherlock switched off his bedside lamp and flopped onto his side, facing away from John. John stared at him in awe for a few moments, before laying down behind Sherlock, tucking up close to him and wrapping his arms around his waist.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge it, already asleep (or so John thought).  
*

Today was not a good day for John. To start with, he was heroically hung over. He had a headache, and the vague awareness that he’d had a fight with Sherlock the prior night, but wasn’t aware quite how it ended, though he could deduce. Which was the far bigger problem.

An explanation: they were at a crime scene that Sherlock would normally have no interest in whatsoever. It was quite clear that the murderer was a woman with whom the husband had been having an affair, and she had become increasingly jealous of the wife and eventually snuck in and killed the husband and wife in their sleep. However, Sherlock seemed to be taking this as an opportunity to embarrass John and generally make Anderson and Donovan really uncomfortable. He delivered his entire deduction draped over John’s shoulders, with his hands wrapped around John’s waist. Each time John shrugged him off, Sherlock returned, and each hissed 

“Sherlock what are you doing” was met with complete disregard.

“Sherlock, what the hell was that?” John asked in a long-suffering but clearly very annoyed mutter as they were trying to flag down a cab home.

Sherlock didn’t look at him, and didn’t answer.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was a warning.

“You agreed. Last night.”

John licked his lips. “Look, I don’t remember a great deal of the end of our argument last night, but I’m positive that I would not have changed my mind so radically.”

Sherlock smirked. “I’m very persuasive.”

John opened his mouth to retort, but was stopped by an arm coming to rest along his shoulders.

“John!” came Lestrade’s cordial voice, “Let’s go get a drink I want to watch the United match.”

“But, Lestrade I--”

“No, come on, I think we both need to get away from our wives,” with this Lestrade winked at Sherlock. When John failed to respond favorably, Lestrade gripped his shoulder harder and began half-pushing, half-dragging him down the road. Sherlock watched them go with a wry grin.

“Greg,” John protested weakly, “There isn’t even a match tonight. It’s not even football sea--”

“Shut up, John.”

John licked his lips, “Look, I’m sorry, I need to talk to Sherlock about something important.”

“Later.”

“No, Greg, I’m sorry, but it’s important.”

“John, will you bloody shut up? This is good for you, trust me.” Lestrade seemed to pick a pub at random on the quickly darkening street, and shoved John inside. John had by this point resigned himself to his fate, and docilely accepted his beer.

“So,” began Lestrade as he sat down with his beer, “Why are you giving Sherlock a hard time?”

John spat beer everywhere, and fixed Lestrade with a look that was half incredulity and half affront. “Wh-what are you talking about?”  
Lestrade rolled his eyes at him. “You love him. Everyone can tell.” John sputtered violently. “Shut up. And I’m willing to bet he loves you even more.” Further sputtering. “John, you’ve completely turned him around, you’ve changed his life. You made him human again. He just wants to show you he’s grateful, and you turn around and pretend he’s important to you.” Lestrade took a swig of beer like an old monk sipping tea. “How do you think that makes him feel?”

John muttered something incoherent into his tankard.

“Sorry, what was that?” John had an absurd feeling of being a child being lectured by a parent.

“It probably makes him feel like shit,” he grumbled.

“That’s right,” said Lestrade kindly, “and for what? You can’t honestly be afraid people are going to judge you for being with a man, can you?”

“No, no, that’s not it.”

“What, then?”

John sighed. “It’s just … look, you know how they always tell you no one’s perfect? Well, Sherlock’s the next best thing. He’s just too amazing in every way.” Something glass smashed against a wall behind John that he didn’t notice. “And I just don’t feel like I deserve him.” Someone stomped around, and Lestrade shot a glare over John’s shoulder “--What are you looking at?” John began to turn to look, and Lestrade grabbed John by the shoulders and turned him to face Lestrade again. “What the hell?” said John.  
Lestrade took a second to gather his wool, and then out of nowhere, he was back to full lecture mode. “John, look, if anyone is doing the not deserving, it’s Sherlock. You put up with his insanity for a year before you were even with him--”

“Ho-how did you know th--?”

“Shut up I’m psychic. Now, listen … to. Me?” Halfway through Lestrade’s last sentence, something of extreme interest seemed to have happened behind John, because his speech faded to a halt as he kept alternating between glaring and shaking his head at something John couldn’t see.

“Seriously,” said John, “What the hell is going on?” John began turning around, barely aware of a gritted-out “don’t you dare” from Lestrade. Before he had a chance to register what he was looking at (some sort of dark blue wool monolith), something had grabbed John under his arms and hoisted him to a standing position.

“Sherlock wha--”

“Shut up, Lestrade. I’m going to kiss my boyfriend now.” And so Sherlock did, and John knew he was meant to be angry for Sherlock for following and eavesdropping and making his day hell but he was exhausted and he really couldn’t be bothered, so he let his hands snake around Sherlock’s waist and leant into him.

When they broke apart, Sherlock whispered “Okay?”

John rolled his eyes. “Bit not good, but okay.” He smiled indulgently.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade was saying, “The only reason I let you follow was because I expected you to sit quietly and listen, not” Greg made an all-encompassing gesture. “This.”

Sherlock snorted. “Let me? Please.”

“I just don’t understand how I missed you coming in, though,” Mused John.

“Because you’re ordinary, John.”

John let his hand slip off Sherlock’s waist and grabbed his ass. “Damn right I am,” he growled. Sherlock smirked.

“Now, then, Lestrade, if there’s nothing else, John and I have some urgent business to attend to.” Sherlock took John’s hand and pulled him out the bar, saying quite loudly as he did, “You know, John, I think that was pretty gay, personally.”

“Oh, bugger off.”

Sherlock’s grin was actually audible. “That’s the plan.” Lestrade turned back to the bartender, who had already placed a full bottle of vodka and a shotglass in front of him.

“Cheers, mate.”

“You have to see those two every day?” asked the barman.

“Yeah, more or less,” sighed Lestrade.

“Cor. That’s on the bloody house, then, mate. And you can have another if you like.”

“Bless.” 


End file.
